“I’m supposed to tell you what Arch Swanger told me about the girl, right? Where she’s buried. And let’s say Swanger is telling the truth, you find the body, he gets busted for capital murder, and my career as a lawyer is over. My son is returned safely to his mother, and I get to spend a lot more time with him. In fact, I’ll be a full-time dad.”
“You’re on the right track.”
“And if I say no, what will happen to my kid? Am I supposed to believe that an assistant chief of police and his thugs will actually hurt a child as revenge?”
“I guess you gotta roll the dice, Rudd.”
I fight the panic. I tell myself my son is safe, and I believe this. But the situation is so urgent that it is impossible to think rationally. Partner and I go to a coffee joint where we huddle in a corner. I walk through the various scenarios as he listens.
There is really no choice. The only important thing here is the safety and deliverance of my son; everything else fades in comparison. If I divulge the secret and lose my license to practice law, I’ll survive. Hell, I might even prosper somewhere else, and I certainly won’t be dealing with the likes of Arch Swanger again. This could be my ticket out of the profession, my one beautiful opportunity to walk away from the law and to search for real happiness.
I want that little boy in my arms.
Partner and I debate whether I should call Judith and bring her up to date. I decide not to, not now anyway. She will add nothing but stress and complications. And, much more important, she might let it slip to someone else that Kemp and associates have pulled an inside job. Reardon warned me to keep it quiet.
I call Judith anyway, just to check on her. Ava answers the phone and says Judith is in bed, medicated, and not doing well. The FBI just left the house. There is a swarm of reporters out in the street. Things are just awful. As if I don’t know.
At 7:00 p.m. Sunday, I call Reardon and say we have a deal.
It takes an hour to get a search warrant. Obviously, the police have a friendly judge on standby. At 8:30, Partner and I leave the City, with one unmarked car in front of us and one behind, which is nothing unusual. By the time we get to Dr. Woo’s sign, the police are there in force. Spotlights, two backhoes, at least two dozen men with shovels and sticks, and a canine squad of dogs in crates. I’ve told them everything I know, and they’re examining the ground next to the rows of corn. State troopers guard the shoulder of the interstate, waving off any driver who might get curious.
Partner parks the van where they tell us to park, a hundred feet away from the sign and the action. We sit and watch and hope as the first few frantic moments slip away and the long hours begin. They methodically poke into every square inch of soil. They make a grid, comb through it, then make another one. The backhoes are not used. The dogs stay calm.
On the other side of the sign there are several unmarked black cars bunched together in the darkness. I’m sure Assistant Chief Kemp is waiting in one of them. I loathe him and would like to personally drill him between the eyes, but right now he’s the man who can deliver my son.
And then I remember what he’s been through: the horror, the fear, the waiting, the final resignation when he and his wife realized Jiliana was not coming home. Now he’s sitting over there praying his men will find some bones, something for him to bury properly. That’s the best he can expect—a skeleton. My expectations are far greater and certainly more realistic.
By midnight, I’m cursing Arch Swanger.
As they work through the night, Partner and I take turns nodding off. We’re starving and desperate for coffee, but we’re not about to leave. At 5:20, Reardon calls my cell and says, “It’s a dry run, Rudd, there’s nothing here.”
“I’ve told you everything I know, I swear.”
“I believe you.”
“Thank you.”
“You can leave now. Get back on the interstate, head south to the Four Corners exit. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”
As we pull away, the searchers are packing up their gear. The dogs are still in their crates, resting. Arch Swanger is probably watching and laughing. We head south, and twenty minutes later Reardon calls again. He says, “You know that truck stop at Four Corners?”
“I think so.”
“Park at the gas pumps but don’t buy any gas. Walk inside, the restaurant is on the right, and at the far end, away from the counter, is a row of booths. Your kid will be there eating ice cream.”
“Got it.” I want so badly to say something as stupid as “Thanks,” like I owe someone a debt of gratitude for kidnapping my child, not hurting him, and then giving him back. Truthfully, though, I am overcome with relief, joy, gratitude, anticipation, and a strange disbelief that this abduction just might end on a happy note. This never happens.
